The End of it All
by FiammaBee
Summary: Molly is young, too young to be responsible for herself and two small children. Unfortunately, the world has become angry and cruel, and she has no other option. This is the story of a seventeen year old girl, and the lengths to which she must go to survive in an apocalyptic landscape teeming with monsters, both living and dead.
1. Chapter 1

The sun is setting and from inside the sturdy, blue barn we've been bunking in, it looks the sky is hiding behind an old, mildewed shower curtain streaked with blood. Or maybe it's just me. The girls are already asleep so I can't ask their opinions not that I would suggest such a thing to them, of course. I woke them early this morning to prepare.

We're leaving the barn tomorrow, hopefully before the sun comes up again. If we leave just before the sky starts to lighten, the shadowy darkness might be enough to throw off the geeks in the field below. I can see only three of them right now but last night and the night before, that number more than tripled. We see more of them at night but there isn't any apparent reason for the increase in their numbers. Maybe they just congregate at night. They definitely aren't aware of our presence. That was a concern for me at first. If they could track our location by any means we'd be in much more trouble than we already are. Initially, it seemed like they relished the dark, but now I know that they aren't capable of such preferences. At any rate, this area is becoming far too populous for my liking, which is what really initiated our upcoming move.

The old but well-built barn has been home for only a few days and I already don't want to leave its' familiar protection. I'm sure it's human nature to seek out a dependable dwelling. We started in the house, just south of here down a narrow, country road, but it was impossible to reinforce. Almost the entire east wall of the first floor was made of wide, picture windows. We tried to stay low and quiet but I could see far too many of the dead milling around. I knew it was only a matter of days before we ran out of luck and were spotted. The barn was barely visible behind a huge group of old trees. I thought it would be a safer alternative and for the past few days, it has been. The road is still too close, though. Not just the narrow, unpaved road but the main highway that runs parallel to it. During the day, I can see the unending congestion from the hayloft. Dead cars, dead trucks, and, of course, dead people litter the interstate. They move in herds or individually, all trudging south, and they're always there. We'll never be safe here, barely a football field away from their main track. So we move on again.

The perils of this location may have been a major oversight on my part, but it wasn't a total letdown. We were able to stock up on some necessary supplies and as an added bonus, I found a rifle for Charlotte and a small hatchet for Kate. Not exactly ideal but what kind of weapon can you expect a three year old to properly wield? Plus it looks kind of adorable hooked into her tiny, pink belt. And I think it makes her feel safer. The blade is dull enough but I still fashioned a kind of makeshift sheath out of cardboard and duct tape. I don't want her to accidentally cut herself and I pray she'll never need to actually use it. I still can't believe our world has become something so nefarious that a child, barely more than a toddler, must carry a weapon to feel secure.

Below me, the field is empty except for one dark form struggling through the high grass. It's slow and mindless; there is no pattern to its' path. It walks one direction, then turns and shambles several feet before shifting again. Occasionally, it pauses and looks around. I'm certain it doesn't sense us, through smell or hearing or any supernatural perceptions. I don't know why it stops and I have no idea where the rest have gone. Maybe they joined the others passing by on the road. They move similarly but they clearly aren't walking together or as a group. They walk slowly until I can barely hear their feet shuffling over the dusty rocks that make up the road. By the time they hook around the bend half a mile south, I can't hear them at all.

Charlotte sneezes once, quietly, against the rolled up sweatshirt she and Kate are using as a pillow. It's the hay. We've all been sneezing and sniffling since we moved our things to the loft. Another reason to pack up and head out.

I can't see the shadow in the field anymore but I'm not surprised when something slams into the barn door below us. It isn't loud enough to wake the girls at first but soon I hear the doors tremble and the chain I have looped through the handles starts to rattle. In this situation, I'm psychologically lost.

In her sleep, Kate whimpers. She rolls across the old, stained mattress and curls up into a little ball. Before long, she's sobbing. The doors start shaking fiercely as the creature fights to get in. I know the padlock will hold and aside from the doors above in the hayloft, there's no other way into the barn. I'm not afraid of it getting inside. My concern is for how to get us out. We can't stay here forever. And what if the commotion alerts others?

When I wake her, Charlotte's wide, scared eyes make her look far younger than eleven. I didn't want to disturb her, but I can't leave the loft without warning her. I may not come back, after all.

"Get your sister. Keep her close, I have to go down." I whisper as quietly as I can, pointing at the ladder. Charlotte just nods and slides across the mattress.

"C'mere, Katie-bug" she says as she pulls the toddler close. She looks like the world's youngest mother with her baby sister in her arms. I'm thankful that Kate quiets almost instantly but I don't have time to savor the relief. The thing at the door won't stop until either it's destroyed or we are.

I slowly ease myself down the ladder, wincing as the wood creaks under my weight. The shambler scratches at the door like a dog. I can hear it growling and snarling. I don't want to get any closer but I have no choice. In my mind, I pray irrationally for it to go away, for something to distract it, for it to just disappear. In reality, I'm scanning the dirt floor for a silent weapon. I have a gun in a fake leather holster on my hip and I know how to use it but I haven't had much practice. Most people don't realize that precise aiming is far more difficult than the media has led us to believe. To the unfamiliar, even a very close target can be tough to hit. I'm a mediocre shot at close range but that doesn't always help me when the point of a gun is to avoid close range situations. I've never had to shoot a person, living or dead, and my ammunition stockpile is absolutely depressing. The gun won't do for this chore, anyway. I need stealth more than force. I need to kill this thing without drawing attention. And looking at the heavy doors, I need to sort out a way to do it without going outside or letting it in. I can't risk it finding the girls if I fail but my chances of failing are exponentially higher if I'm outside the barn where more could easily ambush me.

My eyes settle on a dusty cabinet in the corner. Inside, I can just barely make out the outline of what looks like a broom or shovel. A closer look reveals a similar but much more useful tool; it's a pitchfork. The tines are rusty but look sharp enough for what I need although perhaps a bit too wide.

After forcing myself closer to the shuddering doors, one painfully intense inch at a time, I test my theory and find it to be accurate. The business end of my new weapon won't fit through the narrow slit between the chained doors. Another quick inspection of the structure gives me a different idea, one that is far more welcoming as it maintains a safer distance between me and our visitor.

Five minutes later, I'm back in the loft. The creep is thumping on the door with his fists and moaning mournfully. The hatch is propped open by a moldy board and I can see him now, no more than six feet below me.

The zombie is what I would call 'almost-fresh'. His pale pallor has taken on a blotchy, greenish tinge; his clothing is bloody in places and would definitely do well with a good bleaching but could still be salvaged. He could have been a casual businessman, maybe a contractor or office manager, in his khaki colored twill pants and button-up shirt that I think must have started out as white or maybe light blue. It's even still tucked in, mostly. The only obvious trauma I see is a blackened bite mark on his left forearm. It stands out against the ghostly, moonlit skin like a... well, like a festering wound on otherwise unmarked flesh. This is the worst kind of zombie - fresh enough to look alive from a distance and fast with no debilitating decomposition or damage to his extremities. It is gravely dangerous, emotionally and physically. Dispatching these creatures sometimes seems more like murder than liberation.

The girls are both awake and watching me with intrepid awe. By the time I finish explaining my plan, Charlotte is looking at me as if I've lost my mind, a question I'm actually starting to ponder as well.

"I know it sounds strange but it'll work, I promise!" I tell them with a confidence I most certainly don't feel.

"Are you crazy? You're gonna get killed!" Charlotte says. Her incredulous whispers are almost comical.

"Yeah, probably but we gotta like...get creative here. Grab my feet and let's get this over with, okay?" I force a smile to emphasize the sarcasm in my voice but she knows I'm scared.

Once I'm certain that she'll do as I ask regardless of my state of sanity, I twist my torso out over the ledge. My abdominal muscles tense as I fight to hold myself horizontal above the open air. I reach back and wiggle my fingers; seconds later the pitchfork is thrust into my hand. I'm thankful that I can't breathe in this extremely awkward position because after glancing back at the girls, an overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically hits me dead on.

Charlotte has her arms looped around my legs. My ankles are wedged into the crooks of her elbows, held tight enough to hurt us both. She's leaning back with all of her weight in a very appreciated effort to avoid my toppling out of the hatch onto the thing below. Kate has struggled to drag the pitchfork to my open hand. Her cherubic face is bright red and scrunched up with strained concentration. The pitchfork is easily three feet longer than her and probably half her weight. She's tough, though. Her little fingers hold the handle up until I can get a firm grip.

Before I lose control of my impending laughter, or my nerve, I swing the pitchfork over the ledge, point it straight down and hold it steady in both fists.

"Hold on tight," I mumble under my breath and Charlotte's elbows tighten around my legs. Despite my whisper, the creep hears me at the last second and jerks its head upward. I look into its dead, gray eyes for just a split second before the rusty pitchfork punctures one of them. It lets out one last throaty gurgle before I plunge the pitchfork once more, this time directly into the crown of the things head. It drops to the ground with a satisfying thud.

With many gasps and much struggling, the girls maneuver me back into the barn. I pull them both against me. We huddle there together until Charlotte starts to tremble. She buries her face against my shoulder.

"It's alright, Char. We're fine, we all did great." I go on and on, trying to come up with the right words to provide her with comfort. When she finally looks up, I see that her eyes are wet with tears but not from fear or sadness. She's laughing silently, her entire body shuddering from the effort of keeping it in. I can't help but join her. I know it's the adrenaline hitting but before long, all three of us are shaking.

"You should have seen yourself, Molly. Your face-" Charlotte says. Her own face is tomato red.

Kate snorts into her hands, laughing along with us even though she doesn't really understand what's so funny but honestly, neither do I and we're all set off again. We're laughing and shushing each other like maniacs. Charlotte rolls across the mattress and onto the floor. We laugh until I feel like I might throw up and Kate is wheezing, collapsed in my lap.

When we've all caught our breath, I usher the girls back onto our bed. The sky has darkened but moonlight filters in through the open hatch. The breeze is cool and I'm reminded of one more concern - what to do and where to go throughout the winter. I file it away in the back of my mind with a million other worries.

"Alright, guys. Sleep time." I don't expect any argument and there is none. We're all exhausted. "We're still on for leaving tomorrow, k?"

"Okay." Charlotte says. She's already half asleep.

Kate snuggles against me. She's still smiling even though her eyes are closed and her breathing is steady. It comforts me to see her smile. She's too young to witness these horrors.

Outside, on the ground below the open window, I hear shambling footsteps passing by the barn. They've come to investigate the death-moan of their now fallen comrade, no doubt. Since they never saw, or heard us, I'm not concerned. Now that we're quiet and the snappy dresser below has been taken care of, I'm sure they'll keep moving, as long as no one sneezes. Within minutes, they've faded away, shuffling through the grass in search of whatever it is they're drawn to.

The girls are both out in minutes and I should be, too. This happens every night. The panic hits when the sun goes down. Charlotte is eleven, Kate is three. They're children and I'm responsible for them. During the day, when the girls are awake and the sun is shining, I can almost pretend everything is normal. When warm, sunny hours go by without any interaction with the dead, I can fool myself into believing we're just on a very long, very exhausting camping trip or hiking expedition. But every night, when darkness falls and the warmth fades away, the reality of our desperate situation beats down on me and I don't know how to deal with it. It's a long time before I fall asleep and when I do, I dream of Claire.


	2. Chapter 2

"I miss... French fries." I say. Kate is clinging to my back like a monkey, her ankles crossed over my belly. Her arms are tightly wrapped around my neck and I have to tickle her every few minutes to remind her to relax. She's strong for her age. It isn't fear that drives her to hang on so tight, it's my own bouncing stride. I'm trying to make the trip fun for her, to distract her just a little bit.

"I miss playing soccer," Charlotte contributes from behind us. Maybe I shouldn't but I trust her eyes. She's an excellent lookout. Whether she's too young or not is irrelevant. I have no other option.

"I miss air conditioning!" And I really do. It's been warm this summer, particularly during the day.

"I miss swimming," Charlotte says. She always tries to one-up me. We play this game at least once a day, sometimes more. It helps to pass the time and I don't want any of us to forget who we were. I honestly miss everything we talk about but I can't tell them the things I really miss. I miss skipping class to hide in the city with my friends, the 'rough group' my mother warned me away from. I miss sneaking into the school in the middle of the night to get high on the roof under the dark, velvety sky. I miss the way Caleb's lips felt at my father's funeral when he kissed me for the first time. I miss these things more than swimming, or blueberry muffins, or riding in my brother's convertible with the top down but I don't mention them. Maybe I will when they're older.

"What about you, little Miss?" I jostle Kate around a bit on my back, making her giggle. "What are you missing?"

"Hmmmm…" She pauses for dramatic effect, I guess. "I miss my ladybugs." At first I don't understand what she's trying to say. Her childish phonetics pronounce the L as a Y. Charlotte sees my confusion and translates.

"Her bugs. Ladybugs. She loved them. She had a whole cage-net thing on her dresser. I think like ten or eleven of them. She even named them all. That's why we call her Katie-bug."

"Oh, I get it now. Well, we'll have to find you some new ones and a little case to keep them in, Miss Katie-bug." It's sweltering as we march down the road and her warm, little body traps the heat against my sweaty back but I welcome her hug and kiss. I never really considered being a mother but I know that I would fight for this little girl and her sister as if they were my own.

The sun has been shining steadily since early this afternoon. We left the barn just as daylight arrived. No excitement, no diversions. The dead man was still lying next to the door as we tiptoed past. I shielded Kate's eyes but I know Charlotte saw him. I almost asked her to look away but I decided it's probably better for her to know what we're dealing with. Maybe she'll look twice the next time she sees what she thinks is just an injured passerby. Maybe it'll save her life to know that some of the monsters look just like us on a bad day.

I don't have a compass but I think we're headed north-west. I've altered my plan and now we're tentatively aiming for Canada. I have no way of knowing if the border was compromised but it's possible the Mounties knew to single out and eliminate the infected. It's crossed my mind that they might turn us away but we'll figure that out when we get there. We have to go somewhere. It's a plan and it's all we've got.

Kate is humming into my left ear and my mind has wandered to thoughts of our future so I don't notice anything out of the ordinary until Charlotte grabs my hand and squeezes it urgently. I freeze in mid-step and shush Kate. She's already accustomed to this drill from our flight out of the city. Her head drops to my shoulder, her arms and legs tighten around me and she's instantly silent, apart from her breathing.

Charlotte is peering into the woods at our left. I follow her gaze and see them maybe twenty yards off, partially obscured by lush, green leaves. Three of them are milling around a wide tree, slowly circling it with unsteady lunges. As we watch, one of them appears to trip over its own feet and tumbles to the ground. The others continue their revolutions, going around or over their fallen comrade as it struggles to regain its wavering posture.

I take Charlotte's hand and slowly pull her to the far side of the narrow, country road we've been following. A thin strip of loose stone runs all the way along each side of the pavement. We creep across it, wincing as the rocks click together beneath our apprehensive feet. When we reach the grass, I crouch and let Kate slide off my back.

"Get down. Slowly. No sound." I mouth the words, terrified of drawing any attention. It's a miracle we weren't heard as we strolled along, unaware.

Once we're all flat on our stomachs, we inch away at an excruciatingly slow pace. My instincts are screaming at me to stand and bolt but I'm afraid they would hear or see us and I don't know how far or how fast I can run with a small child on my back. They won't ever get tired; they'll never stop until their legs give out.

I'm hesitant to leave the road behind us so we continue to follow it while I keep my eyes on the zombies. For a heart stopping moment, one of them shudders to a stop and turns toward us. Its face is frozen in a perpetual grimace; its lips are torn away to reveal a wide, yellow grin framed by bloody gums. Kate is watching me, waiting for further direction but Charlotte sees the dead eyes turning toward us. She buries her face in the grass and scrunches her eyes closed, her body trembling. Thankfully, the grass and shrubbery that sprouts up randomly where the stones and the field intersect is enough to hide us from view. Seconds that seem eternal pass but eventually it turns away and continues circling. We scurry away like crabs on a beach.

Half a mile up the road, we're still speed-walking as quietly as we can through the field. We keep glancing back every few minutes but there's nothing behind us. Kate is settled on my hip, her head resting on my shoulder, and my back aches from the unbalanced weight.

"Hold up, Char." I'm out of breath, panting. Her fingers find the rifle strapped across her back and she furtively scans the area. "I have to rest. My chest hurts."

"She's asleep." Charlotte nods her head toward her sister in my arms.

"What? How can she be asleep?"

Charlotte shrugs. She's right though. Twisting my head around, I can see that Kate is completely out. Her breathing is steady and calm.

"I dunno. She slept a lot after Mom and Dad died. I think she just sleeps when she gets upset."

"Really? That's weird… Maybe we should stop for a break? We could eat lunch and let her nap." I look behind us again; half expecting to see the zombies almost upon us but the road is still empty; the field is clear. There's no one and nothing approaching yet relief evades me.

"Yeah, but let's keep going a little bit further." Charlotte must share my unease. I nod and shift the toddler in my arms.

Another mile up the road finds us outside what I hope is an abandoned gas station. An SUV sits adjacent to the pumps with all the doors wide open. Keys dangle from the ignition. The nozzle inserted into the vehicle's tank must have been locked because gas has spilled out all around the open fuel cap. That or someone was very careless.

Charlotte rushes over to the driver's side door and slides in. Frowning, she gingerly grasps the keys.

"Molly, I don't know what to do. Should I try to start it? What do I do?"

The gas fumes are overpowering. I've failed two driving tests in the past six months. I never got the hang of parallel parking. I know almost nothing about cars.

"I think we shouldn't. There's gas everywhere and I don't know if it's going to blow up or something... Just get out, Charlotte."

At the mention of potential explosions, she jumps out of the seat and slams the door. The bang echoes across the mostly empty parking lot and beyond. Dozens of blackbirds burst from a dying oak across the road, chattering indignantly. Kate stirs in my arms and Charlotte cringes.

"Sorry..."

Dread builds up inside my chest as the harrowingly familiar sound of tuneless groaning reaches my ears. The station is not abandoned, as I originally hoped.

There are only two other cars in the lot. Closest to us is some kind of smaller pickup truck. The other, an older Cadillac with purple flames airbrushed along the sides, is parked haphazardly beneath a shattered light post. As I watch, the already ajar driver and passenger doors squeak open simultaneously. Like monsters from a horror story, they stumble out of the car. They're dressed in tattered, baggy clothing. One still wears a stained baseball cap. By sight alone, I would estimate that they've been dead for days.

It's too late to hide; they're already hobbling toward us. Baseball Cap is a bit faster than his partner but he's still hindered by decay. The other drags behind with an ankle in bloody, shattered ruins. Every few steps, it drops to one knee.

"Take her, now! Get in the truck, close the doors and windows."

Charlotte falters.

"I can help, Molly!"

"You can help by getting in the truck and keeping her as quiet as possible." I shove Kate into Charlotte's arms. She's awake now and close to tears. "Now, dammit!"

There's fire in Charlotte's eyes but she slips into the cab of the truck and sets Kate in the passenger seat. She closes the door, then locks it for good measure. They both peer out at me as I pull the pistol from my hip.

I try to stand like Eric taught me with my legs shoulder-width apart. I keep my left arm straight and relax my right. I aim with both eyes open. The first shot is wild and dings off the light post. The second shot whips the baseball cap right off the closest zombie's head but doesn't actually hit it. The third punches a hole in its neck. Its jaw collapses onto its chest but it keeps coming. I'm down three bullets and it's less than a dozen feet away.

I raise my sight and suck in a deep breath. Before letting it out, I pull the trigger. Behind me, Kate lets out a holler before Charlotte claps a hand over her mouth as the zombie formerly known as Baseball Cap falls to the ground with a neat hole through its left eye.

The second zombie has fallen and crawls toward me. Ragged bone protrudes from the black flesh of its fingers. The sound of that bone scraping across the concrete is caustic. I scan the surrounding area for any sign of additional unwanted attention but the horizon is clear from all directions.

I've replaced the gun at my belt and I'm reaching for the large, hunting knife I have strapped to my ankle when a shot rings out. It reverberates in my ears and it takes me a heartbeat to realize that it isn't a gunshot. It's the door to the gas station that's been slammed open and now swings back and forth on its hinges. From the darkness within, I hear before I see them. They pile out, all four of them, and stumble onto the front walkway.

They must have been a family, maybe holed up inside. I can almost put together in my mind the events that led to their interment. Mother, father, teenage son… The last of their party is female and young, probably only ten or twelve, with long, tangled hair. They're dressed in ruined sleepwear. The mother-figure wears a long, moldering bathrobe over a summery floral print nightgown - something my own mother might wear. I imagine them clustering into the family vehicle, maybe even the SUV at the gas pump, in the middle of the night, fleeing the overcrowded city in search of more secluded shelter. Maybe they were carjacked. Maybe they found themselves without fuel, forced to continue on foot. Whatever the circumstances, they're here now and the stench is overpowering.

Before I'm even aware of my own retreat, I find myself backed up against the truck. The driver side door swings open and Charlotte is suddenly at my side.

"Get back inside! What the hell are you doing?" I raise the revolver once again and take aim. My first shot shatters the front window of the building and glass rains down around us all. I drop the closest walker, the mother, with the second shot. She goes down but twitches on the ground, her arms and legs pounding against the pavement. For the moment, she's last on my list of concerns.

"No way, Molly." Charlotte raises her rifle. She's only shot it twice before. Her expression is grim and determined. The rifle cracks and the kickback rocks her entire body. She's a better shot than I am, a natural. The teenage son falls, landing face first in the pool of gasoline. He doesn't move, again.

Kate is screaming inside the truck. I see tears streaming down her face. Her hands beat against the window, then grasp the door handle, and finally settle on her face, covering her eyes.

"Stay in there, Katie-bug! Just stay there, it's okay!"

I aim again and fire, shooting what I assume is the father of this unfortunate family. It has almost reached Charlotte - is actually reaching for her with clawed fingers - but my aim is true. It crashes to the pavement at her feet and she steps back, barely avoiding a spray of bodily fluids that spatter the ground.

The mother has found her footing and is quickly approaching me with jerky, halting steps. There's a gaping hole in the side of her head and, through the tangle of shredded bone and grimy hair, I can just make out the unmistakable texture of brain tissue. Her nightgown stops just below her knees and her bare legs are covered in festering blisters and gaping wounds. Glistening muscle peeks through the lacerations. She's still the fastest of the four and her robe billows out behind her as she stumbles forward at an alarming pace. Charlotte takes her out with two shots. I'm targeting the last from the station but when I pull the trigger, I hear only an empty click.

"Char, I'm out!"

She advances a step and lines up her shot. With mere feet separating her from her mark, she centers the bullet between the youngest walker's eyes. Blood and brain matter erupt from the hole in its forehead. It lets out a breathy groan and flies backward, coming to a rest against the nearest gas pump. The dead girl is in pale, pink pajamas and had to have been close to Charlotte's age.

I almost cheer but the moment is interrupted by Charlotte's high pitched shriek. The crawler from the Cadillac, briefly forgotten, has its fingers wrapped around her leg. I'm frozen as its mouth descends, teeth sinking into the denim of her jeans. In an instant, the buck knife is in my hand. I drop onto its back and thrust the blade into the creature's skull, slamming its face into the ground. Teeth shatter as its lips and mouth are ground into the hard asphalt. Charlotte is scampering away, clutching her leg and whimpering hysterically.

The crawler grows still under my knees. Black blood and clotted fluids stream over my hand. I swiftly wipe it on my jacket and clamber over to Charlotte.

"Let me see, quick." I reach for her leg and she pulls away.

"It really hurts, Molly." Her eyes are dry but the helpless despair I see in them is unbearable.

"I know, honey. Just let me see it." Reluctantly, she extends her leg. Her pant leg is stained black and filthy but the denim is untorn. I feel light-headed, like I've been holding my breath, and finally let out a long, wavering sigh when I pull up the cuff to reveal her bruised and reddened but unbroken flesh.

"It's okay, you're okay." She doesn't believe me until she sees for herself. She's unsteady for a few hesitant steps but together we make it to the truck where Kate now sits silent, watching us with a fearful expression encumbering her baby face. I'm afraid she might be in shock until we're all together, safely locked inside. She sits on Charlotte's lap with her arms in a vice grip around her sister's neck.

"You okay, Charlie?" Katie asks. Charlotte only nods. For the millionth time today, I'm speechless. I let them comfort each other while I look around our new vehicle. It's less intimidating than the enormous SUV and I'm sure I could handle it.

The truck smells like wintergreen lifesavers. The bench seats are some kind of worn, cheap plastic or vinyl but they're soft and comfortable. It's an older automatic with an ancient looking tape deck. And tucked into the driver's side visor, like a gift from the previous owner, is a set of keys.

"Cross your fingers, guys. And buckle up."

The engine purrs to life instantly.

The gas gauge points to F.

Kate finds a cassette tape in the console and Charlotte shows her how to push it in. The prodigious warble of Elvis serenades our grateful ears as I point the truck north. We're on the road at least ten minutes before the truck drives straight and the steering wheel stops shimmying beneath my trembling fingers.


End file.
